Mouse
by Paradox23
Summary: Quinn tells himself that they will tire of him and find someone else to torment, but even if there was someone that could take his place, his master would not allow it.


"They want to see you," Vette says.

"What for?" Quinn asks.

"I don't know," Vette says, and shrugs, but as she turns away he can see that she _does_ know, because she is smirking.

* * *

><p>His lord's rooms here on the Fury are much smaller than the ones in the stronghold in Dromund Kaas, almost ridiculously small, and that fact, combined with the sluggish shipboard ventilation system, conspires to assault Quinn with a wash of fetidly warm air, thick with the smells of sweat and sex, as he enters the bedroom.<p>

The two are lounging on the bed, of course. The dark red sheets are almost the same shade as his lord's skin, and for a moment it looks to Quinn as though his lord and the bedding are one, as though the Sith is a demon rising from a pool of infernal lava…

And then he blinks, and the illusion is gone. "You asked to see me, my lord?" He can feel his face burning already.

"Yes." The one word answer is languid.

Quinn's stomach gives a lurch. He knows what they want, but painful lessons have taught him the rules: he is the prey, but they require him to act as if he is unaware that he is surrounded by menace. "What do you require, my lord?"

Jaesa makes a soft sound, not quite a laugh.

"She has a request of you," his lord says.

The Sith's red eyes are, as always, hypnotic; to his shame Quinn cannot look away. "Indeed?"

"Indeed yes," Jaesa says. She sits up, arching her back, letting the sheets fall away.

Quinn can't help but notice that her nipples, which had been a lovely pale pink the first time he had seen them, are now almost black from the corruption of the Dark Side she has embraced so enthusiastically. She is still beautiful, but she has always belonged to his lord. He quickly stares down at the floor, ashamed that he still desires, her, even in her degenerate state.

"I want you," she says, "to take off your clothes."

_No,_ he thinks. _She cannot mean—  
><em>

"Yes," the Sith commands, "do take off your clothes, Quinn. Show us what you've been hiding."

"Sir, I—" He glances up at them, accessing. His lord has a look that, on anyone other than a Sith, would pass as patient amusement, but she has the predatory glint in her eye that Quinn has learned to dread. At such times it is best not to deny her; the former Jedi padawan is far crueler and quicker to punish than his master. "As you wish."

His pulse pounding in his throat, he unbuttons his jacket, slips it off, and then folds it neatly. He knows it is dangerous to test their patience, to not obey quickly, but he feels as though he _must_ hold onto a shred of control and dignity, no matter how small.

"Stop stalling." His lord's expression is less amused now.

"Of course." Quinn pulls off his undershirt, folds it less carefully, then bends to unzip and remove his boots.

"Now?" Jaesa asks. "Should I tell him what I want?"

"Not yet," the Sith says. "You'll want to see his face."

Quinn cannot bear to look at them as he pushes down his trousers and steps out of them.

"C'mon now," Jaesa says, her lips parted as if she's panting. "I want to see _everything."_

Quinn pushes down his underwear, steps out of it. He hesitates before standing, and then, feeling defiant, stands up as straight as if he is going to give them a salute.

"Aw, you've started without me, you naughty boy," Jaesa says, "Okay, here's what I want. Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Play with yourself," she says. "Jerk off, but keep your eyes on us. I want to see what you look like when you come."

"Don't you dare get any on the furniture," his lord says, waggling a warning finger. He watches Jaesa crawl on all fours to the end of the bed and moves to kneel behind her, stroking her flank with one hand while his other hand pushes deep into her.

"And lick up your mess from the floor. Like a dog," Jaesa adds. She is flushed, breathless with excitement, though Quinn does not know how much of that is from what she has asked Quinn to do, and how much is from what is being done to her.

Quinn stares at the black metal wall above the bed, disbelieving. This was too much! He had been willing, was _still_ willing, to service them orally, but this—! His master had to understand that this crossed the line of what he could accept, what he could tolerate!

"And you thought he'd be embarrassed," his lord says to her, twisting his arm a little until Jaesa gasps. "From the looks of it I think our Malavai is warming to the idea."

_I am not your Malavai,_ Quinn thinks, and grits his teeth. And then, as if the situation is not humiliating enough his eyes begin to sting. He desperately does not want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken... but then the black metal wall and everything else in his field of vision begins to blur, and he hates himself.

Something sharp pokes his chest. He blinks the tears back and looks down. Jaesa is holding out a tube of lubricant. "Wanna use this?" she asks, prodding him. "Looks like it's going to take you a while, and I wouldn't want you to get raw."

"I—" There is a resurgance of tears: they crest over his lids and splash her hand as he takes the tube.

"Awww… are you crying?" she asks, sounding almost kind for a moment before she shudders, climaxing.

He glances at his lord, who is watching hungrily. "Something to say, Quinn?" The voice is a low seductive purr, daring him to object, daring him to beg.

"I won't disappoint, my lord," Quinn says.

As he pours the lubricant into his hand, as he takes hold of himself and begins to squeeze and stroke, he tells himself that someday they will tire of him and find someone else to torment, but even if there was someone that could take his place, his master would not allow it.

He cannot tell if the tightness in his throat is his lord's punishment, or his own.


End file.
